


As a Sure Thing

by luxover



Series: As A Sure Thing [1]
Category: American Idol RPF, David Cook (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Neal ever sees Dave, they’re at some house party in Warrensburg, Missouri. Neal doesn’t really know what’s going on; he’s still a little tired from the set that he just played, and he’s had enough to drink that his head is a little fuzzy and he kind of just wants to sit down for a few minutes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As a Sure Thing

The first time Neal ever sees Dave, they’re at some house party in Warrensburg, Missouri. Neal doesn’t really know what’s going on; he’s still a little tired from the set that he just played, and he’s had enough to drink that his head is a little fuzzy and he kind of just wants to sit down for a few minutes.

There’s a lot of smoke in the house, though, so Neal doesn’t feel too bad when he takes out his pack and lights a cigarette. He looks around and it’s a pretty normal house, nothing of any note, not really, and although there’s still a lot of booze left, Neal’s kind of ready to head out.

“You alright?” Andy asks. He’s holding a can of some cheap-ass beer and yelling over the music, and Neal entertains the thought that mindreading is Andy’s sixth sense.

“I guess.” Neal shrugs and he can feel the collar of his denim jacket slide up and down his neck. “Kind of tired.”  _Kind of really fucking tired_ , he thinks, and if the cigarette between his fingers wasn’t anchoring him to the ground, he’s not entirely sure he wouldn’t just float away.

Andy laughs. “Kind of drunk, more like.”

And then some kid that Neal doesn’t know is leaning forward, pointing at him and saying, “This is him drunk? Whoa,  _did_  not see that coming,” and Neal gets that a lot. He’s a mellow drunk for the most part, he knows that, and maybe he should respond, but all he can focus on is how the kid stressed  _did_  as if that one word held more meaning than anything else he said.

Later, after he’s finished his first cigarette and is making his way through his second, Neal looks around at how all the furniture is pushed up against the walls. Sitting sounds nice to him, but Neal doubts he’ll find an open seat on the couch. It’s packed, and everyone over there’s laughing real loud.

“Hey, Andy,” he says, nudging Andy in the side. “Who’s that?” He points to one of the kids on the couch, the one who’s by the armrest and who’s throwing his head back.

“Him?” Andy asks. “I dunno, some Axium kid, I think. Daniel, maybe? No, no—David, it’s David.”

Neal watches as the guy pushes his bangs out of his eyes and then shakes his head. Something must’ve been real funny. Neal thinks,  _Axium, huh?_

Andy laughs, says to him, “Come on, loverboy, let’s find you somewhere to pass out,” and then leads Neal through the house and out the door, one hand on his elbow. Neal thinks,  _Loverboy?_  and he doesn’t get it, not at all, but then Andy’s opening the door to their tour van and no one’s there, so the biggest bench seat is free, and Neal thinks maybe he’s in heaven.

It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep.

 

Neal doesn’t see David again, not for a long time, and truth be told, Neal doesn’t spare him a second thought. Things are real busy for the Kings, so Neal barely even has time to himself, time where he doesn’t need to be writing or recording or planning tours or figuring out where his band gets to sleep that night.

It’s one of their only free nights for the next two weeks and Andy says to him, “Hey, want to hit up a bar with me tonight?” Neal doesn’t, really doesn’t, but when Andy sees him hesitate, he says, “Oh, come on, man. Just for a little while.”

So Neal ends up at the Blank Slate on a Tuesday night, and the bar’s pretty much dead. Andy’s not there yet, but Neal doesn’t bother to wait and instead goes to order a beer.

“Can I get a Stroh’s?” Neal asks, and he’s already searching in his wallet for a ten.

“Sure thing,” the bartender says, and as he’s sliding the bottle along the countertop, Neal sees that it’s the kid from the party all those months ago.

He thinks for a second about maybe saying something, about asking how Axium’s doing or why he’s in Tulsa, but then Neal remembers that he doesn’t know the guy, not at all, and so he doesn’t say anything.

Turns out it doesn’t matter, because David’s looking at him and saying, “Hey, I know you—do I know you?”

Neal takes a pull of his beer and says, real nonchalantly, “Maybe, maybe. I’m Neal.”

“David,” David says, and Neal has to bite back the  _I know_  that threatens to leave his mouth. “You’re—what?” David asks. “Midwest Kings?”

Neal nods. “Yeah.”

“How’s that going?”

“You know,” Neal says, and it’s only something that would make sense to someone else that’s played in bands before, someone who’s wanted to make it big. “It’s going.”

“Right on, right on,” David says. He’s wiping down the countertop and lining up some clean glasses.

“You still play?” Neal asks, and it might be awkward because David never told him that he played in the first place, but Neal doesn’t care, not really.

“Of course,” David says. “Always. I’m actually working on a solo album right now, which is wild. I’m in way over my head.” He smiles and Neal thinks that he’s got a great one.

“What happened to your band?” Neal asks. “Axium, right?”

David pulls a face and then motions an explosion with his hands, adding in sound effects and making it sound real gruesome.

“Bad, huh?”

“Nah,” David says. “Not really. Just… didn’t work out.”

“Those things happen,” Neal says, and David says, “Yeah,” and then the conversation kind of dies. Neal hangs around for a while longer, finishes his beer, and then comes to accept the fact that Andy’s flaking on him.

“Hey, thanks for the beer, man,” Neal says. “If you ever need help on your album or anything, hit me up.”

David smiles, says, “Alright, yeah,” and Neal says, “Yeah,” and then leaves. He forgets to give David his number but figures, fuck it. They run in the same circle, anyways; they’ll meet up eventually.

 

To make up for bailing on him, Andy buys Neal and him tickets to some local show and they both go to check it out. They don’t really know the band, but that’s not the point, so it doesn’t really matter.

“So?” Skib asks. “They’re alright, right?”

Neal shrugs, barely able to hear him over the music, and yells back, “Yeah, I guess.” And so they stand there for a while, drinking their beers and paying half-attention to the guys on stage, and really, all Neal wants is a smoke. He tells Andy as much.

“Hey,” he shouts. “I’m gonna step out and have a cigarette.” He motions smoking a cigarette in case Andy didn’t make out what he had said.

He sees rather than hears Andy laugh.

“What?” Neal asks.

Andy doesn’t answer and then someone comes up behind Neal and throws his arm around his shoulders. It’s David. He’s wearing a t-shirt, something old and faded and that stretches across his chest.

“Hey,” David says, and it’s right in his ear so Neal hears it no problem, feels David’s breath on his cheek. “I was looking for you.”

“Hey, man,” Neal yells, and his voice is steady.

“I wanted to ask you something,” David shouts. Someone behind Neal pushes him as the crowd shifts and he careens forward, bumping into David. David reaches a hand out to steady him, his fingers curled tightly around Neal’s bicep. “Any chance you want to,” David’s yelling, but then he gets lost in the noise of everyone around them and Neal can’t hear what David asks.

Neal motions a hand towards his ear and shouts, “I can’t hear you.”

Dave says something again, but Neal doesn’t get anything from it, just sees David’s lips move. Neal shakes his head again, then nods to the door. David follows him outside and then says, “Shit, that was loud in there.”

“Yeah,” Neal says. “Really fucking loud.”

“Hey, though,” David says. “Wanna get something to eat? There’s a diner around the corner.” And Neal considers it because he’s hungry and he wants some fries.

“Alright,” he says, and so they set off walking. David falls in step beside him, and the air is cool and crisp and Neal’s glad he has his jacket. “Mind if I smoke?” he asks.

“Nah, go for it,” David says, and Neal lights one up a moment later, smoking as they walk and talk.

At the diner, they sit across from one another in a booth and they both order burgers. Neal pulls the rings on his lip in and out of his teeth and watches as David continually pushes his hair out from in front of his eyes.

“You should get that cut or something,” he says.

“Yeah, I know,” David says. “Just too lazy.”

Neal says, “Well hey; I’ve got a pair of scissors, if you need them.”

“I would probably poke my fucking eye out,” David says, and Neal smiles, something warm settling in the pit of his stomach.

“But hey,” David says after they eat. “Listen. Did you mean it when you said you’d help me out on my album if I needed it?”

Neal says, “Of course, man, yeah.”

“Alright,” David tells him. “Well, I need it.”

 

The studio is small, real small, and the day Neal goes in, David doesn’t have it booked for all that long, so they get to working pretty much right away. David plays him some of the rough demos just so that Neal knows what sound he’s going for, and then afterwards David tells him where his problem is.

“It’s just right here,” David says. “I know I need to do something here, because it just doesn’t sound right? But everything I try just sounds…  I don’t know.”

So Neal listens to the track—tentatively titled  _Let Go_ —about a dozen times, and his fingers fly along the fret board of the guitar in his hands as he tries to figure out what could work.

“What about,” Neal says, and then he plays a little lick, just something real short that could be the start of a solo. “Right there, after the chorus.”

“What, like a solo?”

“Yeah,” Neal says. “Why not? Then you can transition into the next bit easier, or do a double chorus or something.”

David sits back in his chair and says, “Shit. That’s a good idea. Play it again?”

And Neal does, again and again, and each time either he or David adds something to the end, and while they don’t get much done, at the end of the day they have the full solo recorded, and the song sounds almost done.

“Hey,” David says outside the studio. It’s cold and Neal’s smoking, but David just sticks around to keep him company. “Thanks for your help. I mean it.”

Neal shrugs. “No problem, man,” he says. “Anytime.”

 

“The best part about them,” Dave tells him the next time they hang out, “is that they’re good, good for you, and you can eat like twelve of them in a row before you start feeling sick.” He’s talking about the granola bars that he and Neal just ate, the green Nature Valley ones.

They’re sitting on Dave’s couch and it’s a little old—Neal thinks he sees a cigarette burn on the armrest—but it’s comfortable as shit and they’re watching  _Die Hard_  and eating granola and Neal thinks this is probably the healthiest he’s been in a long time.

Dave says, “That’s pretty sad, man,” and Neal agrees.

“Hey,” he says. “My friend Kyle’s having this barbecue on Saturday. Want to come?”

David smiles, big and wide, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

 

David talks about his family a lot. Neal gets that they’re real close, and that makes him a little jealous.

“My brother Adam,” Dave says when Neal mentions it, “he has brain cancer. They just found it and stuff, but that brought us all back together. I guess we’re real lucky like that, to have each other.”

Neal thinks,  _Your brother has brain cancer; what’s lucky about that?_  He doesn’t understand how Dave can be taking this all so well. Maybe he breaks down privately, Neal doesn’t know.

“What about your other brother?” Neal asks.

“Who? Andrew? Oh, he’s just a little shit. You’ll learn that when you meet him.”

Neal notices that it’s just assumed that he will.

 

So Neal hangs out with Dave a lot over the next few weeks, getting to see his album come along real well until finally Dave decides it’s done. Neal’s a little jealous, yeah, because his own band is going over a few bumps in the road, and then one day he wakes up and they no longer have a bassist.

So they have an emergency meeting, just him and Andy and Kyle, and they try to figure out what to do because the Kings can’t die, not now, not when they’ve got a tour coming up and when they’ve still got so much left in them.

“What about Dave?” Kyle says. “He plays bass, right?” And Neal doesn’t know what it is about that, but something there makes him uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” he says, “but he’s doing his own thing right now. He just released his solo.”

“So?” Andy says. “He’d still do it, if you asked.”

And Neal doesn’t see any way out of it, doesn’t know why he’s even looking for one, so he asks Dave and Dave says, “Of course, yeah, of course,” and that’s that.

 

So they go on tour and everything goes off without a hitch. Dave learns the bass lines to their songs in only a few days, and it’s great getting to be with him on stage—he brings a whole different kind of energy to everything, one that Neal hasn’t ever felt before.

They’re all still crammed into their little tour van and it sucks, but this time around they have a small trailer for all their equipment and so they make it work, somehow. Neal very quickly learns what gas station food Dave likes and what he doesn’t, realizing that that’s something you only ever really know about people you tour with.

He’s tired—he’s always tired when he’s touring—but Neal keeps on and even though sometimes he wakes up with Kyle’s feet in his face or with a soda can digging into the small of his back, he wouldn’t change it for the world. Getting to crash on some more floors would be nice, yeah, but even if he could only ever sleep in the van, touring is still second to none.

“We’re stopping for a few minutes,” Dave says, shaking him awake. “Water or coffee? Soda?”

Neal thinks on it sleepily for a minute. “Water,” he says. “My wallet’s, um…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dave says. “You can get me back later. Go back to sleep.”

And Neal doesn’t need telling twice, but when he wakes up an hour and a half later, Dave’s bought him a bottle of water and two honey buns. He opens one up and goes to offer some of it to David, but David’s asleep next to him, his head lolling back and his mouth slightly open.

Kyle’s driving, and he looks back at Neal in the rearview mirror. “You know,” he says, “those things are like five hundred calories and a guaranteed heart attack in your old age.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Neal says, and just for that he shoves over half of the pastry into his mouth.

“Yeah,” Andy says. He’s in the passenger seat and has a map spread out across his lap. “Besides,  _Dave_  bought it for him.”

Neal narrows his eyes and says, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Andy just says, “Nothing,” and Neal doesn’t pursue it.

 

After most of the shows, they go out and get drunk, taking turns on who has to be the designated driver. It’s kind of lame that they can’t all just drink together, but they’ve got a schedule that they need to stay on and none of them are willing to risk it. Sometimes, if they’re lucky, they’ll find a house party or something with free beer, but if not, they hit up bars and David assesses the bartenders’ skills and they all just get kind of rowdy.

During the party that they find after their third show, Neal and Dave get into an argument with these other guys about the merits of Gibson guitars. Dave’s real into them because they make lefties, and while Neal doesn’t really care either way, he argues Dave’s side for the hell of it.

Afterwards, as they’re all lying on some girl’s basement floor trying to sleep, David says, “Those guys from tonight were assholes.”

“Why?” Andy asks. “Cause they don’t like Gibsons?”

“Yeah,” he says, and then repeats, “Those guys were assholes.”

Kyle laughs and says, “I think maybe you had too much to drink tonight, D.”

“No, man, no,” David says. “Ask Neal; he knows.”

They all look at Neal and he just shrugs. “Assholes,” he confirms. “But they did introduce us to someone who ended up letting us crash at their place.”

“Then they can’t have been that bad,” Andy says, and that’s pretty much how it goes.

Kyle wakes them up in the morning and they all stumble blearily to the van, throwing themselves inside before they pass out again. Neal doesn’t wake up until the next venue.

 

They’ve got a show in southeast Nebraska; it’s as far away from home as they’re getting this tour, and so when the show goes off perfectly, they’re all ecstatic. On top of that, they scheduled an extra travel day in—one that they don’t really need—so all four of them can go out and drink and not have to worry about making it to their next show on time.  

They all hit up a bar that they heard about from some chick at the show, and it’s smoky and loud and there’s a jukebox and twelve different tvs, and it’s exactly what Neal wants. David tries to culture him and Kyle in the many ways of the alcoholic beverage, and so they’re all drinking these crazy drinks that they never would’ve ordered normally and laughing at Andy, who’s fairing pretty well with some blonde in the back corner. At around one, Neal’s smoked more cigarettes than he probably should have and his mouth feels kind of gross and he has a splitting headache.

“Hey, hey,” he says, grabbing Kyle’s shoulder. “I’m gonna head back—back to the van.” He doesn’t wait for Kyle’s response, doesn’t even know if Kyle is going to give one, and makes his way into the parking lot. The cold air feels nice on his face, and when he gets to the van, he just lies down in the back and throws an arm over his eyes.

Sometime later, he wakes up to the sound of the door sliding open and someone climbing in. He can tell it’s Dave because he’s doing his drunk breathing, really loud in and out through the nose.

“Hey,” Dave whispers. “You asleep?”

Neal grunts.

“Oh, okay,” Dave says. “Sorry.”

Neal half expects Dave to leave, but the van door shuts and then Dave is laying himself out alongside Neal, close enough that Neal can feel the heat from Dave’s body melt into his.

“Dave?” Neal asks. He lifts his head up and looks at David. He’s on his back, eyes wide open and staring at the roof of the car. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Neal asks, “What’s wrong?”

David doesn’t say anything, but he looks at Neal for a long time and then just reaches over and wraps his fingers around Neal’s wrist.

“Dave?” Neal asks.

David licks his lips and says, “Yeah,” and then he’s leaning over, kissing Neal and Neal’s kissing back. Neal never expected this, never really even thought about it, but then he’s reaching over and grabbing onto David’s belt and pulling him close. Dave’s fingers are biting into his hips and Neal grinds up against David—or maybe David grinds up against him, he’s not sure—and Neal doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, not at all.

David says, “Fuck,  _Neal_ ,” and his voice just sounds wrecked.

Neal thinks,  _I did that_ , and there’s some sort of sick satisfaction there because he didn’t know he could do that to Dave, never thought that in a million years he’d ever hear Dave sound like that.

David reaches down and palms Neal’s cock through his jeans, and suddenly Neal is hard, harder than he’s ever been in his life. He pulls David’s hips closer by the belt loops, and then they’re kissing again, and there’s a lot of tongue—almost too much—and David bites down on Neal’s bottom lip. Neal likes that; he likes that a lot.

But then Andy’s yelling from somewhere in the parking lot, “Dave? Dave!” and David pulls back and shoots up. His hair is all over the place and his lips are red and he just looks at Neal all wide-eyed and breathing heavily. He says, “Shit. Shit, shit, sorry, shit,” and bolts out the door and back to the bar.

Neal lies there alone for a few minutes before he even fully realizes what had happened. He was fucking grinding up on  _David_ , his  _bassist_ , and he’s still hard but there’s his band to worry about, too, and Neal doesn’t know where this leaves him and David and everything.

“Fuck!” he says, and punches the back of the seat ahead of him.

Later, everyone else piles back into the van and Neal pretends to be asleep. Andy’s next to him, and Neal can’t help but notice that David is as far away as he can get.

 

The next morning, Neal tries to track David down when they’re stopped at a gas station. David runs in to buy something to drink, and so Neal follows him all the way to the juices. There aren’t many to choose from.

“Hey,” he says. “Listen, David—”

But then David’s yelling over the aisle, “Kyle, you want orange, right?” and then walking away, like Neal wasn’t even there.

Neal thinks,  _Fuck you_ , because two can play that game.

 

They go through three days without talking. Neal doesn’t know how they play shows like that, but somehow they do.

“Hey,” Andy corners him one day. “Everything alright with you and David?”

And Neal just says, “Yeah, of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” Andy suggests, but Neal’s not having any of that.

“Everything’s fine,” he insists. “Butterflies and rainbows and shit.”

His shoulders are straight and rigid as he walks away, and he pulls his collar up higher on his neck so he has something to do with his hands.

 

Sometimes Neal looks over at David, but David’s never looking over at Neal. Neal fucking hates to be the one pining. He’s over this shit.

He pushes the next girl he meets that seems interested up against a wall in the back of the venue and holds her there with his hips. They don’t get very far because the entire time Neal’s comparing everything she does to how David did it, and when he walks away, he ignores Andy’s catcalls and Kyle’s whistles and David’s not caring and heads to the van.

  
And the problem with getting into fights with your best friend—because somewhere along the way, that’s what David became—is that sometimes you make plans with them ahead of time, and sometimes you can’t cancel those plans without seeming like a huge, gigantic asshole when you’re mad at them later on.

They’re in Missouri, pretty close to where David used to live, and one of the local radio stations had set up a whole to-do with him, an interview and a small acoustic set. Neal had agreed to play backing guitar for him since he knew all the songs already, anyways, and now all he can think of is how badly he doesn’t want to do it and how that means he’ll have to be there, with David sitting next to him on a little stool.

Neal almost doesn’t go. He skips the interview, which both Kyle and Andy go to, and he only makes it to the acoustic session with seconds to spare.

As someone’s passing Neal his guitar, Dave looks at him and says flatly, “I half expected you to bail.”

Neal says, “Well then you obviously don’t know me very fucking well,” and it feels victorious except for how, in all honestly, David knows him better than anyone.

It’s pretty crowded—apparently Dave holds some sort of sway in this neck of the woods—and he and Dave are set up so close that Neal’s arm brushes against David’s sometimes, and that when he shifts in his seat, his knee brushes against Dave’s leg. If Neal looks at David—which he does sometimes—he can see the bags under Dave’s eyes and how his tongue darts out to lick his lips every now and then and, if he really strains, he can make out the individual hairs of scruff on David’s neck. Neal thinks he looks beautiful—tired, but beautiful—although he’d never admit to it, not in a million years, not to anyone.

 

That night, Neal, Kyle, and Andy all hit up an arcade, and Neal blows a fuck ton of money on  _Time Crisis 2_. Part of him wishes that Dave had decided to come instead of opting out to do whatever it is that he is doing because he and Neal make an unbeatable team, but then he remembers that he’s not really talking to Dave and shakes that thought from his head.

So he switches out when he dies and Kyle takes over his gun, and he and Andy are just screaming the most ridiculous things at the screen, like, “Choke on it, cocksucker!” and “How do you like the taste of  _steeeeel_?” It starts out funny, but then Neal begins to feel like the third wheel or some shit, so he heads out to the van to grab his cigarettes.

When he slides open the door, he sees Dave just sitting on the bench seat, all the way over to the left and leaning against the window.

Neal says, “Oh. Sorry,” and goes to close the door, but Dave stops him.

“Hey, wait,” he says. “I don’t like—can we not do this?”

And Neal looks at him incredulously and says, “You’re the one who told me to wait! I just wanted to grab my fucking smokes.”

David shakes his head. “No, no, I mean, can we not fight? I fucking hate it.”

Neal fucking hates it, too, and Dave knows as much, has to know as much. He shrugs. Then, “Dude. David. Were you crying?” And upon closer inspection, Dave’s eyes are a little glassy and his nose is a little red.

“Maybe,” David says. “I tend to do that from time to time.”

“I fucking  _know_ ,” Neal says. “You’re like a twelve-year-old girl.” And then just like that, Dave’s laughing and he’s laughing and everything’s almost back to normal.

“Hey,” David says. “I’m really fucking sorry, you know? I shouldn’t have.”

“Not a problem,” Neal says, but he’s pissed because David’s fucking  _sorry_? Who the fuck says that? Who the fuck apologizes for kissing someone?

“No, I mean,” Dave says. “I mean, you were really drunk, and I was too, but not that much, and I just kind of, like, I don’t know, just came on to you, and I think maybe I might have—”

“Shut up,” Neal says. “Just—shut the fuck up. I didn’t  _mind_ , okay?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Neal confirms, and then David’s looking at him long and hard and it’s making Neal a little uncomfortable.

“Hey. C’mere,” David finally says.

So Neal climbs inside and slides the door shut to keep the cold nighttime air out. He sits down and he rubs his hands along the front of his thighs and breathes out pretty loudly. He looks at David. Neal doesn’t know when he started thinking of his friend as more than just his friend, doesn’t know if maybe a little of it was before the kiss or if all of it was after the kiss, but looking at David in the car, Neal can’t help but think that he’s breathtaking.

“I want to—” David says. “I mean, I’m going to—”

“Just fucking do it, then,” Neal says, and he’s known David for long enough, knows him well enough, that he knows what’s coming and that forces his heart rate through the roof. “Just don’t freak out on me afterwards.”

Dave smiles and says, “Fuck,” and, “I’m sorry,” and then he’s leaning over and kissing Neal again, only this time neither of them are drunk. David reaches up a hand behind Neal’s neck and he threads his fingers through the hair at the base of Neal’s skull, and he tugs a bit. Neal groans and then he’s surging forward, pushing himself hard against David and the window of the car.

Then Neal’s kissing his way down David’s neck, dragging his lip rings down the skin as he moves, and when he finally settles for sucking at David’s collarbone, David’s saying, “Neal. Neal, fuck,  _Neal_ ,” and Neal’s never loved the sound of his own name more.

And suddenly David’s pushing back, shoving Neal’s shirt up to his armpits and kissing Neal’s chest and running his fingers over Neal’s nipples.

David says, “Been wanting to do this for a long time,” and he pinches one of Neal’s nipples and Neal groans loud enough that he should be embarrassed.

“Too much clothing,” Neal says. “Fuck, too much, too much,” and he’s reaching for David’s belt. He’s aware, somewhere in his mind, that the second he undoes the belt buckle, he’ll be crossing a line that he can’t uncross. He reaches for it anyways.

“Wait, no, wait,” David says, and Neal’s stomach drops through the floor as David pulls his hips away. But then he’s saying, “You first, come on, please,” and grabbing at the front of Neal’s jeans, and Neal can’t say no, not to David.

David makes quick work of the belt and of the front button, and when David’s fingers wrap around Neal, Neal’s head falls back and his hips stutter.

Neal says, “Oh, fuck. Oh,  _fuck_ ,” and he hears David laugh breathily in his ear and say, “You like it rough, huh, Tiemann?” David stretches his body out along Neal’s, and Neal can feel David rock his hips against Neal’s side. It shouldn’t be as hot to him as it is.

And then David’s sucking a huge hickey on his neck and Neal can’t focus because David’s hand is wrapped around his cock and David’s lips and tongue and teeth are on his skin. Neal can’t focus because it’s David—fuck, it’s _David_.

He doesn’t last long. A few more twists of David’s hand and then Neal’s coming, hard, and he’s sure his face is beet red upon realizing how fast it was. Only then he reaches over towards David’s jeans and David backs away, says, “Hey, no, you don’t have to do that.”

“Shut it, fucker,” Neal says. “Fair is fair. Plus, I want to.”

David blushes and Neal likes how that looks, likes how he can see it spread down past his stretched-out collar.

“No, I mean, I—um, already,” Dave says.

Neal smiles against David’s cheek and that gesture in and of itself feels oddly more intimate than anything they just did. “Next time, then,” he says. “I want to watch your face as you come.”

David says, “Who says there’s gonna be a next time?”

And Neal knows that Dave’s just fucking with him—he better be, anyways—and so he doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he rolls over and he and David kiss lazily and with far too much tongue until they hear the guys come back.

Neal offers to drive the last leg of the trip because he knows that he’ll never sleep, not after that, not with his mind moving a thousand miles an hour thinking about David and the band and what this means.

 

David tells the guys that he’ll co-pilot, and then he just talks to Neal for the rest of the ride like nothing has changed, and Neal thinks everything is pretty fucking top notch for him.

 

When they get home, Neal goes to Dave’s place and they have sex. It’s nothing special, nothing magical or any of that bullshit, but it’s good, really good, and that’s all Neal can ask for.

He gets up to leave—Dave must want to be alone for five fucking minutes after that tour—but Dave just says, “What, are you crazy? You’ve been in the van all day. Just sleep here, dude. I’ve got extra toothbrushes.”

And he makes it sound so simple, and it doesn’t seem like he means anything by that other than exactly what he said, so Neal lies down and makes himself comfortable and just says, “Thanks, man.”

Dave says, “Anytime,” and Neal knows that he means it.

 

They work really well, he and David—none of the guys seem to care, and nothing’s really changed much except for how Neal and David have sex now, whereas before they didn’t. Neal thinks that’s the ideal situation, being able to get off on a pretty regular basis but not having to deal with any of that flowers and dinner bullshit.

It’s a little weird at first, though, just when they’re trying to figure out the boundaries of their relationship and everything. One time, when they’re at some club, David tries to hold Neal’s hand and Neal has to explain how he doesn’t like that, how it isn’t his thing, and later, Neal has to learn that so long as Mr. Sixx is in the room, he is never going to have sex because that weirds David out.

Andy and Kyle, though—they never really seem to get that Neal and David are just fucking, that’s it, and Neal gets that a little. If Andy and Kyle suddenly announced that they were shacking up, Neal would come to the same conclusions—no way it’s just sex, not when you’re already close friends.

The thing is, though, it  _is_  just sex for him, and once that little seed of doubt is planted in his mind, Neal freaks out a little bit. What if David thinks there is something more to this than just great sex? What if he’s expecting to go home with Neal and meet the parents and buy a house together one day?

But then they’re at a diner, just the four of them, and David keeps stealing fries off of Neal’s plate because he made the fatal error of ordering potato chips instead.

“Hey,” Neal said, swatting at Dave’s hand. “Quit fucking taking my fries. I said you could have  _one_.”

“Oh, come on,” Andy says, and Neal knows just by the tone in his voice that Andy’s going to be poking fun at him. “Let your boyfriend have a fry. What’s yours is his and all that shit, right?”

Only then Neal says, “He’s not my boyfriend,” and everything goes silent. Kyle and Andy stop moving and Neal sees them both swing their eyes over to Dave, as if they expect him to throw a tantrum or something.

“What?” Dave asks as he steals a pickle off of Neal’s plate. “We’re not like, dating or anything. It’s just sex.”

“Great sex,” Neal adds.

Then Kyle’s holding up his hands and saying, “I don’t want to know,” and that’s pretty much the end of that.

 

“I’m going home for the weekend, I think,” David says to him as he puts his jeans back on. They’re in Neal’s room and the air smells like sex and sweat and Neal absolutely loves it.

“Yeah?” he says. “Alright. See you when you get back?”

“Sure,” David says. “I’ll try to call or something, maybe. Andrew’s trying out for American Idol, so that should be hilarious.” Neal throws his head back and laughs and he can see Dave’s eyes follow the line of his neck.

“That little fucker,” Neal says. “Tell him I say hi.”

And then David’s leaving, showing himself out, and Neal stretches out on the bed, a huge-ass smile on his face, and he thinks,  _American Idol. What a joke._

 

He’s in a bar when he gets the news.

“No!” Kyle’s yelling over half a dozen empty glasses. “Bullshit! I call bullshit on that!”

“No, no, really!” Andy’s saying. “I swear to God—it was fucking Kurt Cobain, back from the dead.”

The whole place is really fucking loud, but Neal’s phone is on vibrate and so he feels it ring in his pocket.

“Alright,” Neal says as he’s fishing his phone out. “They guy  _looked_  like Cobain, I’ll give you that—hello?”

“Hey,” he hears David say over the line. “Got a minute?” Neal has to cover his other ear just to hear him, bending down a little instinctively as if hunching his shoulders will change the volume of his phone, or of the bar.

“Yeah, of course,” Neal yells. “So give it to me straight—is the kid gonna be my next American Idol or what?”

“No,” Dave says, and there’s a pause, a long one, and Neal can’t tell if that’s because Dave’s not saying anything, or if it’s because Neal just can’t hear him. “But I might be?”

Neal says, “What?”

“I tried out. They want me to go to Hollywood.”

And that’s—unexpected.  Suddenly it feels like everything’s shifting and Neal’s not sure he likes it.

“Well, right the fuck on, man,” Neal says. “Congratulations.”

Andy and Kyle are looking at him, wondering what he’s talking about. His excitement for David sound forced to his own ears, and he knows it probably sounds the same way to David.

 

“It won’t be that long,” David says as Neal drops him off at the airport.

“A couple weeks, yeah?” Neal asks.

“A couple months, if I’m lucky,” and David laughs as he says it, laughs as all these people rush by, as if he wasn’t leaving Neal and their band behind for the Great Beyond.

“Call me later, alright?” Neal hates how needy that makes him sound, and almost the second the words are off his tongue, he wishes he can take them back.

“Dude,” David says. “Obviously. I’ll be back before you know it. You guys wouldn’t know what to do without me, anyways.”

Neal watches him walk away and he thinks that he’s not so sure; there’s nothing holding David here. Midwest Kings was never really his band. His parents don’t live in Tulsa; his brother doesn’t live in Tulsa. Neal lives in Tulsa, but if he had the opportunity that Dave has right now, Neal doesn’t think he’d come back, not for someone who’s just a good fuck with no strings attached.

 

“Wanna go to the Blank Slate?” Kyle asks the following week.

The Blank Slate is where Neal first talked to David.

“Nah, I think I’m just gonna head home and maybe write a song or something,” Neal says.

Instead, he goes home and fucks his hand while thinking about David’s skin.

 

David looks really fucking good on tv. He’s on stage, doing exactly what he wants to be doing, while Neal’s in Tulsa not playing with his band because their bassist is in Hollywood.

Neal plays small solo sets, and once he and Kyle get together just to jam a little, but it’s not the same and Neal fucking hates that. They had a good thing going, and then David had to go and fucking ruin it.

 

“Come on, man,” Kyle says, nudging him awake. It’s almost one in the afternoon and Neal regrets ever giving Kyle a spare key.

“Ngh,” Neal says, turning his head the other way.

“No, seriously, man, come on,” Kyle says. “We’re going bowling.”

“Why the fuck would I go bowling in the middle of the afternoon?” Neal asks. “They don’t turn the lasers on til like nine.”

“It’s pathetic that you know that,” Kyle says.

“And it’s pathetic that Dave leaves and suddenly you forget how to shower,” Andy adds, and Neal didn’t even know Andy was there. “So get your ass up, go wash your balls, and we’ll see you in a half an hour, yeah?”

 

“David? David? Is this your voice mail? I think maybe it is. I’m kind of fucking drunk right now; pitchers at Bowl America are pretty fucking cheap, it turns out. But I thought of you because I had—what’s it—a pin that’s hidden behind another pin? And I couldn’t think of what that’s called and neither could the guys, and I thought,  _Where the fuck is David Cook when you need him?_  Anyways.”

 

Neal wakes in the morning with a text from David saying,  _It’s called a barmaid and I miss you too_ , and he has no fucking clue what Dave’s talking about. He doesn’t bother texting back.

 

“I don’t know, it’s pretty cool,” Dave says over the phone. “My roommate’s a nice guy, so that’s good. I don’t know, though. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Do you guys break out into song and dance at random intervals?” Neal asks.

Dave laughs, “No, oh my god, fuck you.”

“Well then I’m not visiting,” Neal says. “Not worth it.”

 

David makes it to the Top 12 and Neal throws a Watch Party. It’s just him, Sixx, Andy, and Kyle, but Neal still goes out of his way to buy some hot wings and some beers. David sings Neal Diamond and is wearing a new bracelet, an orange one, and Neal wonders what it’s for.

Kyle doesn’t usually watch the show—he doesn’t even own a tv—so when he says, “Who’s that? The little one that’s got eyes for Dave?”  it takes Neal a second to figure out that he’s talking about David Archuleta.

“That’s David Archuleta, bro,” Andy says. His fingers are covered in hot sauce and Neal watches him wipe it off on his jeans. “You need to stop living under a rock. Body of a twelve-year-old, voice of an angel.” And Andy doesn’t even acknowledge that Kyle thought someone else was into Dave, and Neal never thought that before now, but now that it’s been pointed out to him, that’s all Neal can see.

“Well, fucking excuse me!” Kyle says. “Maybe invite me over next time the show’s on, jackass. They don’t play this shit in sports bars, you know.”

And for them, everything moves on, but all Neal can think about is how he’s in Tulsa and how Dave’s in Hollywood with David Archuleta and his angelic voice. He’s mad and bitter and he doesn’t even fucking know why, because it’s not like he owns David, it’s not like he can be mad at David for moving on, and so he almost doesn’t pick up the phone when Dave calls. In the end, though, he does, because it’s late and he’s horny and phone sex sounds like a brilliant idea.

“Hey,” he says when he does. “You were good tonight.”

“Yeah?” Dave says. He sounds tired, just from that one word.

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence for a minute where all Neal hears is David taking deep breaths. He thinks about saying something, filling the void, but then finally decides that the silence says more than if he were talking.

“I think,” Dave says, and he’s quiet, real quiet, and Neal can barely hear him, “sometimes, about just leaving. Just quitting and heading back to Tulsa and being with the Kings again. This shit—it’s not me, you know? I only fucking tried out because I was there.”

“Shut the fuck up. Don’t say that shit,” Neal says, and it catches him off guard how fiercely he means it. “You’re on fucking national tv, Dave. This could mean big things for you, you know? And besides—the Kings? We’re not going anywhere. The spot’s still yours if you want it after all this is over.”

“What about you?” David asks. “Are you going anywhere?”

“No,” Neal says, and he’s pretty genuinely confused by this. “Where would I go? Tulsa’s my home, you know? I’m fucking staying here til I kick it.”

David says, “Yeah, yeah. I don’t know what I meant by that.”

“What’s up with the new bracelet?” Neal asks.

Dave laughs. “Ah, so you  _have_ been watching!” he says, and then he tells Neal that he’s wearing it in honor of a fan who has Leukemia. “Real sweet girl,” he says. “It breaks my heart.”

And later, after they’ve talked for a while, Dave says, “Hey, you maybe want to come to the show sometime? Like, see it live and stuff?”

Neal groans, just says, “Fuck,  _yes_ ,” because sex aside, David’s his best friend and he misses the shit out of the guy.

“I miss you,” Dave says, and even though they both know it’s true, Neal can’t bring himself to say it back.

Instead, he says, “Soon, motherfucker. Soon.”

 

Soon turns out to be three weeks later. Dave’s still on the show, and to be honest, Neal’s surprised—not because Dave’s not good enough to be there, because he is, but because Neal never really pictured Dave fitting in that mold, being that person to millions of American Idol fans.

Neal flies all the way out to Hollywood on his own dime. The plane ride sucks, the cab driver almost gets them into an accident and the hotel lost any and all record of Neal’s reservation. But, at the end of the day, Neal thinks it’s alright because he gets to see Dave and Dave gets to see him and maybe, maybe that makes it all worth it.

The seats are all packed. Neal sees four signs dedicated to Dave as someone shows him to his seat, and when he looks around, he realizes that he’s right fucking behind the judges, right there. He doesn’t really know anyone, but there’s some guy named Jeff—one of the contestants’ fathers, Neal thinks—and he seems nice enough, welcoming Neal into the conversation he’s having without worrying that he’s some fuck-up because of his tattoos and piercings.

That week, David sings  _Always Be My Baby_  and Neal sees his new haircut and his new clothes and his new everything in person for the first time. It looks better than on tv, better than he imagined late at night, and it’s hard for him to just sit there and watch without being able to touch.

Finally, after what seems like forever, he gets to go backstage and David meets him, smiling real wide and bouncing on the balls of his feet. They don’t hug or anything, even though Neal feels like they kind of should, but that’s alright because there’s tons of people milling about, anyways, and it’s not like they won’t have time to themselves later.

“I got you something,” Neal says. “Just, you know, for you to use after you win this whole thing.”

David says, “Shut up, you’ll jinx me,” and then, “Okay, fine, what is it?”

Neal hands over a rectangular box wrapped sloppily in tinfoil. David rips the foil apart and is left holding a box of Kleenex tissues. He laughs loud, a bark of laughter that’s kind of his signature, and if he is going to say something, Neal never gets to find out what because then David Archuleta is walking up and Dave’s throwing his arm around his shoulders.

“Just who I was looking for,” Dave says. “Archie, Archie, I want you to meet Neal. Neal, this is Archie.” And Archie looks just as adorable in real life as he does on tv, and Neal would love to just tear this kid apart, but he can’t—won’t—because Dave likes him and because he seem just so honest and earnest and Neal just doesn’t fucking have the heart.

“Oh, hey,” Archie says, smiling wide. “You must be Cook’s boyfriend!”

Dave says, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend,” and Neal likes it a lot more when  _he’s_  the one saying that. Hearing Dave say it in front of Archie—in front of anyone—throws Neal off-center, especially now that Dave’s never around and he’s constantly surrounded by new people more exciting than Neal.

“Oh,” Archie says. “Oh, wow, this is awkward then, haha.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Neal tells him. “You were great tonight.  _When You Believe_? Always a good choice.”

“Thanks,” Archie says. “Too bad I got upstaged by Cook! He’s always awesome, though, so I should be used to it, haha.”

David give’s Archie’s shoulder a squeeze and they exchange glances before Archie’s called away by his mom and his sister. Neal has something lodged in his chest, and it’s big and heavy and Neal finds it hard to swallow.

 

David has curfew, has to be back at the mansion by eleven thirty, but Neal convinces him to come back to his hotel room anyways, just for an hour or two.

Neal holds David down and is a little rougher than usual. Other than Dave’s rule of no visible marks above the collar, Neal sucks hickies wherever he can, biting and licking until David’s a mess underneath him. Neal brings him to the edge and keeps him there until David is chanting his name like it’s the only word that he knows, and even then Neal takes a minute to admire his handiwork.

Afterwards, Neal reaches over and straightens up David’s hair so he can leave looking at least half-decent. He kisses Dave goodbye, long and sloppy, his fingers tucked into the waistband of Dave’s jeans, and if Dave notices anything weird about Neal’s behavior, he doesn’t say anything and Neal’s immensely grateful. He doesn’t know what he’d say if David did.

 

Crammed into an Economy seat on the flight home, Neal looks out the window and ignores the young girl next to him who can’t stop staring at his arms. He thinks,  _Should’ve fucking said something_ , but then he realizes that he doesn’t know what he means by that, doesn’t know what he should’ve said, and so he spends the rest of the flight with his brow furrowed and in a bad mood.

Skib and Kyle pick him up from the airport, and he slings his small bag into the back of the car before climbing in himself.

“How was it?” Kyle asks.

Neal shrugs. “Alright, I guess. Not really my thing, but it was cool.”

“Right on,” Andy says. “Blank Slate work for you?” He doesn’t wait for Neal’s answer before he starts heading there.

“He’s gonna win the whole fucking thing,” Neal says.

Andy glanced back for a second and then says, “Yeah. We know.”

“That’s really gonna fuck the Kings over. We should probably look for a new bassist or something.”

Kyle says, “That’s really what you’re worried about?” He sounds real skeptical.

“Yes,” Neal says. “It is.”

 

It’s a Wednesday and Blank Slate is pretty empty. They have no problem getting a high table and there’s a basket of hard pretzels set out, and Neal thinks,  _Perfect_.

They were all going to just get some beers, but then Kyle says they should get whiskeys or something, “a real man’s drink in honor of Dave kicking ass.”

Andy asks, “So? Come on. What was it like?”

Neal tells them, “I don’t know. It was okay. Kind of lame because everyone was singing Mariah Carey, but there was a lot of people and shit and they just lost their cool when Dave was singing. You should have fucking seen it.”

“We saw it on tv, anyways,” Kyle says. “Fucking saw you sitting behind the judges, too!”

“Yeah. It was alright.” Neal picks up his beer. “Dave, though? He fucking belonged on that huge-ass stage. He’s not coming back, not even when it’s all said and done.” And it’s sad but it’s also true, and Neal’s not gonna fucking try to make himself think otherwise.

Andy says, “So? The Kings’ll be fine. We always are.” And then he says, “Shit, motherfucker, you’re dating a household name, now!”

It’s automatic when Neal says, “We’re not dating.”

Kyle rolls his eyes and just says, “Dude.”

“Look,” Andy says. “You’re best friends. He spends nights at your place and you spend nights at his. You fuck. When he’s not here, you fucking wish he was, and you call him all the goddamn time. Like,  _all_  the time. You? Are dating.”

“We’re not, though,” Neal says, and he wishes he was drunk for this conversation. “He even corrected Archie on it.”

“Who the fuck is Archie?” Kyle asks, and Andy says, “The little one.”

“Oh,” Kyle says. Then, “Wait, he told—?  _Oh_ ,” and this time there’s a completely different meaning behind the second  _oh_.

“Yeah,” Neal says.

Andy doesn’t say anything, but he buys Neal another drink and Neal thinks that’s all you can ask for in a friend, really.

 

David wins. He cries onstage as Neal sits on his couch at home, feeling like shit because he’s not happy for him.

 

“You’ll come, right?” David’s voice is tinny in Neal’s ear. Neal hasn’t seen him in a month.

“I don’t know if I can get tickets,” Neal says. He’s not sure why he’s purposely trying to be an asshole. Maybe he’s on self-destruct mode.

“Oh, fuck you,” Dave says. “I’ll put you on the list; you’ll be fine.” And David says that so easily— _I’ll put you on the list_ —and Neal knows that if he doesn’t go, he’ll lose David completely to an entirely more enticing world than the one waiting for him back in Tulsa.

“Alright, then,” Neal says. “I’ll come to your little concert.”

 

The American Idol Tour is anything but little. Neal’s a little over-whelmed because he’s used to small venues and suddenly his friend—his  _best_  friend—is singing in fucking sold-out arenas.

“I’m here for David Cook,” Neal tells the security personnel at the gate. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans and the sleeves of his denim jacket are rolled up to his elbows.

The security guy gives him the once over. “Name?” he asks, and he doesn’t give a shit about who Neal is.

The backstage area is huge. People are running about with cords and mic stands and lights, and Neal has no clue where to go because David isn’t answering his phone.

But then Neal sees some kid with dreads—Jason, if memory serves him correctly— and Neal figures he might know.

“Hey,” he asks. “You know where I can find David?”

Jason laughs, says, “By the looks of you, I’m going to assume you mean Cook,” and Neal feels like a fucking idiot. “He’s, um. Okay. Go down that hall over there, by that weird plant thing? And he’s the… third, I think, door on the left.”

Neal thanks him and then leaves. He already hates this fucking place.

When he finds David, David’s getting the finishing touches of his makeup put on. He smiles wide in the mirror when he sees Neal, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Well, look at you,” Neal says. “You’ll be the prettiest girl at the ball.”

David just says, “Thanks for coming, Neal,” and Neal thinks he should be able to read something into that, but he just can’t. It fucks with his head to think that maybe he just doesn’t know Dave that well anymore, that Dave’s changing and changing and Neal’s staying absolutely, positively the same.

Later, when he’s watching the performances, Neal sees Dave do all these stupid fucking dance moves and sing all these stupid fucking songs. Neal looks at David’s pants, the ones with the ties up the sides, and he thinks, _Look at you._

Neal only came to the fucking concert because he didn’t want to lose David, but watching the show, he thinks maybe he already has.

 

Afterwards, Neal waits in the hall as David takes his makeup off in the bathroom. Archie comes up to him, all white teeth and rosy cheeks, and he says, “Cook was real good tonight, huh?”

Neal turns to look at him, says, “Yep,” and then turns back to the shut door that David’s behind.

“I know no one believes me when I say it, but I really am glad that it was him. Cook’s the best, haha,” Archie says. “That’s so cool that you guys played in a band together. Cook tells me about it all the time.”

And all Neal hears is  _played_ , and how he and Dave  _played_  in a band together, past tense. But it’s okay, it’s fine, because Cook still  _tells_  Archie about it all the time, present tense.

Neal’s nails leave little half-moons on his palms.

 

Dave shows Neal the bus when everyone’s still out signing. It’s absolutely quiet, in complete contrast to everything outside, and Neal likes that he can actually hear himself speak.

“And this little coffin right here,” Dave’s saying, “is where I sleep. Or try to, anyways.”

“Big enough for two?” Neal asks, and Dave’s eyes grow wide. He looks to the door and then back at Neal before leaning forward and kissing Neal softly— _softly_ —and it catches Neal off guard for a second. But then he’s surging forward, pressing his body tightly against David’s, and they still fit together the same, still rock against one another in the same way.

Somehow they manage to fold themselves small enough that they both fit in behind the closed curtain, and every time Neal moves, his boots slide against the bottom of the bunk.

“Fucking missed this,” Neal says, and he’s already snaking his hands underneath Dave’s shirt, not wasting any time. He kisses down David’s stomach and to the top of his jeans, curling his fingers into the waistband.

David groans, “Fuck, me too. Missed this. Missed  _you_.”

Neal unbuckles Dave’s belt and jeans and lowers the zipper slowly, too slowly, and while David’s not fully hard yet, he’s getting there. Neal will make sure of it.

By the time he finally wraps his lips around Dave’s cock, Dave is panting and tugging on Neal’s hair, begging, “ _Please, please, please_.” Neal likes how it sounds. He uses his hand to cover what his mouth won’t and when Dave comes, it’s faster than usual but that’s alright; they haven’t seen each other in a long time.

David tries to reciprocate but Neal says no. “Tonight’s not about me,” he says. Only Dave doesn’t know that everything Neal did in the bunk, all of it, was for himself—something to remember when Dave is in another city, another state, and Neal is forced to only remember the noises Dave makes, or how he tastes, or how he feels underneath Neal’s hands.

 

The guys haven’t been to the Rehab Lounge in a fucking long time. Neal’s running late, so he just throws on his denim jacket and a pair of boots that are lying by the door and heads out. Sixx watches him leave and it kind of breaks Neal’s heart when he realizes that he hasn’t been spending as much time with him as he should.

There’s live music going, and Kyle brought his friend Joey, who Neal never sees enough of, and it’s just a real laidback night. There’s good beer on tap—a real lifesaver after the week he’s had—and a shit ton of people and it’s just a really good vibe, something that Neal’s been missing from his life for a while.

“No, fuck you,” Joey says to him. “You’re really going to look me in the eyes and tell me that you think  _Pulp_   _Fiction_  is better than  _Goodfellas_?”

“Yeah, because it is,” Neal says, and he takes a sip of his beer. “I mean,  _Goodfellas_  is good, don’t get me wrong, but fucking  _Pulp Fiction_? Dominates.”

“Lies,” Joey declares.

“I don’t know man,” Kyle says. Neal’s a little cold with his jacket on and Kyle’s just wearing a tank top. Neal thinks he’s an idiot. “I kind of side with Neal on this one.”

“That’s just cause you want to fuck Uma Thurman, though,” Andy throws in.

“True.”

“Oh, please,” Joey says. “You like  _Ben-Hur_. Your vote doesn’t count!”

And the argument goes on like that for a while until Neal decides he could really fucking do with a cigarette, but then when he pats down his pockets for his pack, he can’t find them.

He asks the guys, “Hey, any of you got a cigarette?” but of course they don’t and so Neal just sits there thinking of the two unopened packs that he has sitting on his dresser.

“I do,” some girl says, leaning over from the next table. “Have a cigarette, I mean. If you want.”

So Neal takes her up on it and they go outside and smoke together.

“I’m Kira,” she says, and her hair is green and Neal thinks that’s pretty fucking wild.

“Neal,” he says, and as he brings his cigarette up to his lips, he can see her looking at the tattoos on his forearm.

“Oh my god,” she says, and then she grabs his arm, twisting it a little so she can see all of it. “I  _love_  this.”

“What?” he asks dumbly, because it’s of a topless chick and an octopus, and in his experience, girls aren’t too big on that.

“The mermaid,” she says. “It’s gorgeous. I really like it.”

“Oh,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Oh, wow, right on,” he says. “I like that one—the one of the eye? Makes me think of like, horror films or whatever.” He’s almost down to the butt of his smoke.

“Yeah!” she says. “Like gore movies and stuff? Love it. My friend Jaspyr actually did it—he owns a shop around here, and I’ve worked in and out of tattoo parlors, and so… yeah.” She laughs.

“That’s fucking awesome. I actually think I know Jaspyr. He works at Soul Style, maybe? Dark hair?”

“Yep,” she says. “That’s him.”

They talk for a while longer but then Neal’s ready to head back inside to his guys, so he says, “Alright, I’m gonna head back in, but thanks for the smoke.”

Kira says, “No problem. See you around, Neal.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I really hope so.”

 

Neal’s in a good mood when he calls Dave, and that good mood doesn’t dissipate when he’s gets Dave’s voicemail.

“So we were at the Rehab Lounge tonight,” Neal says, “and that guy Joey was there, and he was like, fucking—I don’t know, hating on  _Pulp Fiction_ and stuff, so I kind of wish you were there to help me straighten him out. But whatever, he’s an asshole.” Neal laughs. “Really, though. Part of me wants to say you missed out because they had Stella on tap, but then again you’re fucking, like, touring and shit, so I guess you win. Whatever. Call me back, motherfucker.”

He doesn’t think to mention Kira.

 

Andy gets on his case the next time they hang out. They’re at the dog park and Sixx is really loving it, but it’s sunny as fuck and Neal forgot his sunglasses and he’s just not really having the best of times.

“You and that girl looked real cozy at the bar the other day,” Andy says.

“Who? Kira?” Neal asks. “Yeah, she let me bum a smoke.”

“Alright,” Andy says, and he’s not looking at Neal. “I was just making sure that—you know what? Never mind.”

“No,” Neal says. “Come on. What?” and he says it like a challenge because he knows that way Andy will talk.

“Alright,” Andy says again. He turns around and shades his eyes with his hand so that he can see Neal. “I was going to say that I was just making sure you weren’t fucking around on Dave.” Neal splutters because he didn’t see that one coming, not even a little bit.

“ _Fucking around on Dave_?” Neal asks. “Shit, Skib, we’re not married. We have sex when we’re together and that’s it, no strings attached.”

Andy says, “I don’t think that’s it for either of you.”

“Well, no one asked what you think,” Neal says, and it’s a schoolyard retort, but it’s all he can come up with at the time.

At the far end of the park, Mr. Sixx chases another dog while Neal watches.

 

Neal’s phone rings as Sixx is drooling on his jeans, and it takes a minute for Neal to fish it out of his pocket. The screen tells him it’s Dave.

“Hey,” Neal says. “Been a while.”

“Oh god, I  _know_ ,” Dave says. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to worry about. So where are you today?”      

David laughs. “I have no clue. Florida, maybe? Somewhere near there, I think. It’s hot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m at the beach or anything. Too busy trying to write songs for the album and dealing with press and stuff. So how’re you doing?” Dave asks.

“You know, I’m alright,” Neal says. “The other day I—”

“Hold on, hold on.” Then, “I can’t!” Dave yells to someone on his end. “I’m on the phone.” A pause. “Really?” A longer pause. “Can’t you get me out of it? Just for today?” David sounds tired, defeated almost, and then he’s back, talking to Neal, saying, “Listen, I’m really sorry, but I gotta go. Something about E! News, I don’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Neal says. “We can talk later.” He knows they probably won’t, not for a while.

“Yeah,” David says. “Yeah, okay. But I really am sorry. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Neal says before he thinks it through, and when David hangs up, Neal just sits there and stares at the wall and thinks,  _Fuck_ , because he’s upset that Dave had to go and a little mad that Dave wouldn’t just blow that thing off for him, just this once.

 

Neal’s chain-smoking outside the Flytrap the next night. He’s the only one outside and it’s quiet and Neal just listens to the cars rushing off in the distance and tries to rationalize his thoughts. The door behind him swings open and with it comes the faint sound of the music that’s being played inside and the sound of high heels on concrete.

“Hey, can I nab a cigarette?”

Neal turns around. It’s Kira, and what are the odds? “Fair’s fair, I suppose,” Neal says, and he holds his pack out. He helps her block the wind so she can light it.

“So hey,” she says, “I was wondering—you want to maybe get something to eat sometime?”

And she’s asking for a date, Neal knows that much, but Dave’s not here and he hasn’t had sex in ages and she’s hot, so Neal says, “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

 

His belt.  _His belt._  Where the fuck is his belt when he needs it? Neal’s scrambling around, trying to get dressed to meet Kira, but his shit is everywhere and if he takes any longer, he’s probably going to be massively late, and _fuck_. His phone rings and Neal picks it up without looking at it.

“Yeah?’ he says.

“Neal?” And it’s Dave.

“Fuck,” Neal says, and then  _there_ , his belt is in the corner. “Sorry, David—I can’t talk.”

“Oh,” Dave says, and he sounds surprised. Neal thinks,  _I’m not dropping everything just because you have a minute to spare, motherfucker_.

“Yeah,” Neal says. “Sorry, I’m just in the middle of getting ready for a date.” And Neal knows that he could have got about that differently, but he doesn’t fucking care.

“Oh,” Dave says again. “I just—I didn’t know that you, um. Were dating. People, I mean. But hey, that’s cool. I’ve got stuff I gotta do anyway, so um. Later, yeah?” He hangs up and Neal thinks he shouldn’t be feeling whatever it is that he’s feeling right now.

 

They go to a gore fest at an old movie theater downtown, and Kira doesn’t have to hide her face in his shoulder, not even once throughout the entirety of  _Evil Dead_  and  _Cannibal Ferox_.  Afterwards, they sneak into the men’s bathroom together and she gets down on her knees in the stall. Neal threads his fingers through her long hair and lets his head fall back against the graffiti as he fucks her mouth. She doesn’t try to hold his hips down and he appreciates that.

Later, the only place nearby that’s open is the diner that Neal first went to with Dave all that time ago, back when Dave asked him for help on  _Let Go_. It’s three in the morning and Neal sits there eating pancakes with Kira.

“You know,” Neal says. “One of the best decisions I ever made was in this diner.”

“Yeah?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he tells her. “Some guy named David asked me for help on his album. I didn’t know him, not really, but I said sure, and then later the guy ended up joining my band.”

“So you’re good friends now?”

“Yeah,” Neal says, and then thinks,  _We were._

And the thing about Kira is that she’s great, she’s really fucking great, and even though he hasn’t slept with her yet, he wants to.

Andy says, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Neal says, “I’m moving on with my life.”

“What did Dave say?”

 

“I don’t mind doing this,” Kira tells him, “but I don’t want it to become, like, a serious thing or whatever. Okay?”

And that’s exactly what Neal wants, so he says, “Yes,” and “Okay,” and then slides her dress off her shoulders and down her waist, wrapping his hands around her ribcage as he kisses her. He kisses her tattoos and tugs on her hair, and when he presses his thumb rough against her clit, she bites into his shoulder. She looks beautiful when he lays her down and spreads her legs open, but he still has to close his eyes in order to come.

 

“So you really like Kira, huh?” Kyle asks. Neal’s been seeing her for a few weeks now.

“Yeah,” Neal says. “It’s nothing serious, though; just messing around.” He’s on his couch, restringing his guitar. It’s a Gibson.

“That’s cool,” Kyle says. “I liked her.” He pauses, asks, “Have you heard from Dave recently?” Neal thinks that’s an unfair question; Kyle knows they haven’t talked since this thing with Kira started.

“No,” Neal says.

“Oh. Well, he’s just started seeing this girl named Kim now. She seems alright.”

Neal says, “Great. Good for him,” but both he and Kyle know he doesn’t mean it.

“Look, maybe if you just talked—” Kyle says, and Neal cuts him off.

“We tried that, alright, Kyle? But our schedules don’t line up and people just grow apart, alright?” Neal snaps. “So just drop it.”

“Yeah,” Kyle snaps back, and his tone catches Neal by surprise. “But when you two broke up, it fucked up more than just the two of you.”

“We were never dating to begin with,” Neal mutters, and Kyle just rolls his eyes.

He acts like he doesn’t care, and maybe he really doesn’t, Neal doesn’t know, but he Googles Kim the next time he’s home alone and finds out everything that he can about her because he’s a fucking masochist. He watches Dave say, “And so I’m actually going to ask you out to dinner right now,” and he says it on live fucking television, and then he watches Kim jump up and down, “I just got asked on a date!” She’s beautiful, and she seems nice and funny and Neal absolutely can’t stand her, can’t fucking stand her.

Neal goes over to Kira’s apartment and she’s not expecting him, but she lets him in, no problem. She gives him a beer and he sits on her couch, and for a while they just sit and watch a show about the life of Dita Von Tesse in silence.

When the credits start rolling, Neal’s already fucking her, not even bothering to ease into it. His hips move fast and he’s rough, leaving little fingertip bruises around her wrists, but she doesn’t seem to mind. He says her name when he comes, loud and very, very purposely hers.

He tries hard not to think of Dave. They’re both doing their own thing now, and Neal thinks maybe it’s better that way, but it’s still hard, especially when avoiding Dave means avoiding the tv and the radio and all of his friends. And maybe he can do most of that, but not the last one and so Neal just deals with it.

“Dave called the other day,” Andy says. “He and that Jason kid met Rosie fucking O’Donnell at a restaurant, apparently.”

Kyle laughs and says, “No!” and “What’d he say?” and “Did he get me an autograph? He better have gotten me an autograph.”

Neal says nothing and they don’t say anything about it. There’s pictures of Dave and Kim all over the internet, some of them taken early in the morning and outside of her house, and Neal’s too busy thinking about what that means to take the time to think about Rosie O’Donnell.

 

Sometimes, Neal dreams about Dave. He dreams that Dave comes back and never leaves Neal’s bed, or that Dave never tries out for American Idol, or that they never hooked up to begin with and so they never had anything going on between them that could ruin everything.

 

Sometimes, Neal figures, things just end, and it’s those things, the ones that just end themselves quietly, that he always looks back on fondly. The thing with Kira kind of ends like that.

“I’m leaving Tulsa,” she says one day. They’re out eating—just at a Panera, nothing fancy—and it’s just him and her at a table in the packed café.

“Where for?” he asks. He’s not particularly upset or taken aback or anything like that.

“California,” she tells him. “I got a job out by L.A.”

“Right on,” Neal says. “You’ll fucking knock them dead, you know you will.” Kira smiles, and it’s just the smile that tells Neal that she needed to hear that, that she was a little unsure.

“Hey,” she says. “Try this sandwich; it’s amazing.”

And that’s pretty much that. Neal kisses her sweetly outside her apartment building and says, “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

She says, “If you’re ever in my area…” and she leaves it hanging like that. Neal thinks they both know that he won’t call, and if he does, that it won’t be for that.

He drives home alone and he feels right as rain. 

 

Neal’s got nothing going on anymore, not with Kira or anyone else, and it’s been ages since he’s talked to Dave. Neal doesn’t know why he even thinks of that. Not talking to Dave is nothing unusual anymore.

Of course, as soon as Neal thinks that, Dave calls. Neal’s attempting to make grilled cheese while playing tug-of-war with Sixx, which basically means he’s burning his sandwich and losing the game to his massive dog and as he answers his phone, he says, “Oh, shit, shit,  _shit_ ,” and takes the pan off of the stovetop.

“Uh,” David’s voice says in Neal’s ear, and it’s so completely unexpected that Neal almost drops the phone. “I can call back later, if that’s better for you?”

“No!” Neal says. “No, I mean, now’s fine. What’s up, man?” And Neal thinks that maybe he started off real fucking bad, but by the end of that he’s as cool as a fucking cucumber, the very definition of nonchalant.

“I just, um,” Dave says. “Listen, I know we didn’t leave off on good terms, but I didn’t—I had to call someone and you were the first person I thought of.”

“What’s wrong?” Neal asks, and then he starts to panic because maybe something happened to Adam and Neal doesn’t know what he would do if that were true. “David, is everyone—is Adam—?” He can’t even finish the sentence, but that’s okay because David cuts him off.

“No, it’s—Adam’s fine, it’s not that,” he says, and Neal breathes a sigh of relief. “Kim and I broke up?” he says, and it sounds like a question to Neal.

“Oh,” Neal says. “Sorry to hear that,” only he’s really not.

“No, I—that doesn’t matter, I don’t even know why I told you that,” Dave says, and Neal can feel the frustration in his voice. “The tour’s over.”

“Yeah,” Neal says. “Saw the big finale on YouTube.” And now he feels just like how David must feel—saying things and not knowing why. He never planned to admit to anyone that he searched Dave’s name.

“Oh,” Dave says. “Listen, hey, so. I’ve got a week before recording starts and I don’t have my apartment in Tulsa and I was wondering if maybe I could crash at yours?”

Neal’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wants to say,  _Sure_ , or,  _Of course_ , or,  _Any time_ , but he just doesn’t say anything.

“Or, you know what? Never mind,” Dave’s saying. “That was a stupid idea, I know. I’ll just call Kyle or—”

“Hey, no,” Neal finally says. “You can stay here. You can always stay here.”

 

David shows up with a suitcase and bags under his eyes. At first, all he does is sleep, and he does it for almost two straight days, and Neal just lets him be. He leaves out food in case Dave wakes up when Neal’s asleep and a note that says that Dave can help himself to anything he wants in the fridge, and he goes out to the store to buy Dave’s favorite beer and some chips and salsa.

When Dave finally returns to the land of the living, it’s a little awkward. All Neal can look at is the strip of skin showing between the hem of Dave’s shirt and the top of his gym shorts, and they make an unspoken agreement to stick to things that are casual, pointless. They talk about  _It’s Always Sunny_  and Bjork and the weather, and Neal wants to shoot his fucking face off.

“When do you have the studio booked for?” Neal asks, because they can always talk music and guitars and sounds, and that’s pretty safe territory, he assumes.

“Oh, man,” Dave says. “On and off for like, the next month and a half or something crazy like that. And it’s not even like the shitty little studio I used for  _Analog Heart_ ; this is like, super massive. The real deal, and all that.”

Neal swallows thickly. “So that should be un-fucking-real,” he says. “You excited?”

“I don’t know. I’m nervous,” David says, propping his feet up on the low coffee table. “They say I can work with Raine Maida, though. Said they talked to him and it’s a sure thing.”

And Neal doesn’t mean to be all pessimistic, not really, but he’s a bastard and so he says, “No such thing as a sure thing.” David just sits there for a minute and Neal almost thinks he didn’t hear him.

“I was,” David says quietly. He looks Neal directly in the eyes. “I was a sure thing, until you got tired of me.” And Neal doesn’t say anything because what the fuck is he supposed to say to that? David scrubs a hand over his face and then says, “Sorry, sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. Just—I’m going to go shower.”

He gets up and then Neal’s alone, listening to the water run and trying his hardest not to think of David naked.

 

They’re playing pool at Joey’s and it’s just going bad, real bad, because they’re all shit at the game. Kyle’s sitting this one out and he’s the only one who’s any decent, and so the whole thing is just a crapshoot.

“All you need to do,” Andy says to Dave—they’re on a team together—“is stick it in the hole.” Then he laughs and says, “So actually, you should be pretty good at this.”

And then Neal’s mouth is moving faster than his brain and he’s saying, “He’s had no practice at that, who are you kidding?” And it’s just a joke, that’s all, but Neal and Dave aren’t really there yet, and so Neal stiffens and whips his head around to wait for David’s reaction.

He’s bent over at the waist, setting up his shot, and he just laughs, “Oh my god, fuck you guys,” and then nails his shot perfectly. Afterwards, when none of the other guys are watching, David looks at Neal and pulls a face, one that doesn’t mean anything but that means everything to Neal.

And so yeah, it starts weird, but then somewhere along the line, Dave turns back into Dave and Neal turns back into Neal and everything’s normal again.

 

“Neal,” Dave says. “Neal! They’re killing him!” And Neal knows, he watching it happen, but fair’s fair and since it’s the three of them and  _Time Crisis_  is a two-player game, they had all decided to rotate in.

“I  _know_ ,” Neal says. “But I can’t do anything about it!”

“Take the fucking gun away from him!”

Andy makes a noise of disgust and just hands Neal the pink gun. “You guys are no fun when you’re playing this,” he says. “I’m going to go play skee-ball. Come find me when you losers get a life.”

Neal and Dave laugh, but they don’t watch him leave because Wild Dog is about to launch the nuclear satellite and it’s up to them to stop him.

 

The next day, the five of them hang out at Neal’s. They’re all just jamming and goofing off, Kyle using a few cups and an upside-down trash can as drums, but they haven’t played together in a long time—in ever, if you’re counting Joey—and so it just feels good.

“Can’t wait to be able to do this in, like, actual venues,” David says, and then Neal remembers. He remembers that Dave isn’t one of them anymore, that he’s moving on, and that if anything comes from this session, David won’t be able to attach his name to it, anyways.

“Do you ever—” Neal starts, and then he stops because he can’t say that, not now that things are back to normal. “Never mind.”

“No, come on,” David says, nudging Neal’s shoulder. “Do I ever what?”

“Miss it?” Neal finishes. “Us?”

And David just looks at him, and his face is real close, and he whispers, “Yes.” Just  _yes_ , no qualifiers or anything like that, and Neal loves that about him.

And he’s not sure who leans forward first, but suddenly they’re kissing and Dave’s hand is on the back of his neck and Neal hands are balled up in the collar of Dave’s shirt. David kisses him slowly, carefully, almost as if he’s afraid that anything more might ruin the moment.

Neal slides his hands up and underneath Dave’s shirt and rests his palms on David’s stomach. They move with each breath and when Neal slides his hands up a little further, he can feel Dave’s heartbeat.

“I want to fuck you,” Neal says.

“Yes,” Dave says back. “Shit, please,  _yes_.”

They stumble to Neal’s bedroom and when Dave sits on the bed, Neal lifts his t-shirt up and over his head before leaning back down to kiss him. David snakes his hands between them, starts unbuttoning Neal’s shirt and then he’s sliding it off Neal’s shoulders, touching as much of Neal’s skin as possible.

They lay back, Neal on top, and kiss for a while, lazy and soft, and Neal’s missed this. He runs his hands up and down Dave’s sides and feels Dave shiver, and then he hooks his fingers into the waistband of David’s pants.

“Can I?” he asks.

“Yeah,” David says. “Yeah.”

So Neal unbuttons Dave’s jeans and lowers the zipper, taking his pants off and then sitting back on his heels to admire the sight of David, naked and languid before him. Neal kisses his way back up Dave’s legs, letting his tongue dip slightly longer in the hollows of Dave’s ankles, caressing the soft skin behind David’s knees and at the joints where his legs meet his hips. He looks beautiful.

Neal takes off his own jeans and then it’s just the two of them, and Neal lowers himself to his forearms so it’s just their two bodies, pressed chest to chest, no air between them. He rocks his hips and then Dave rocks with him until they’re both hard and sweaty and ready, so fucking ready.

Neal preps David, first with two fingers and then three, and then he’s rolling a condom on while David watches. His eyes are wide and it makes Neal’s hands shake.

Like everything else, Neal takes it slow. David’s fingers bite into his hips and Neal can feel them leaving behind little circular bruises, but he won’t hurry up, not for this, not now. David’s knees are wide and Neal runs one hand along his inner thigh and then kisses him again, with a lot of tongue. Neal doesn’t even realize that he’s crying until David wipes the tears from his face and leans up to kiss his cheeks.

When he comes, he buries his face in Dave’s neck, reaching between them to get David off, to bring him over the edge as well. It doesn’t take long, and Dave comes with a strangled, “ _Neal_ ,” his fingers tangled in Neal’s hair.

They don’t spoon or cuddle or anything like that, and Dave doesn’t mention the crying, and Neal’s grateful for all of it. He lies there and stares at the ceiling, the small cracks and dots of stucco staring back at him.

“I feel like everything’s changing,” he finally says, and it’s barely even a whisper. He doesn’t look at David. “Like this is goodbye.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Dave whispers back, and Neal can feel the weight of his gaze.

“But this isn’t enough for me anymore,” he says, and it’s true. He can’t do casual sex, not with Dave, not when there are already strings attached anyways, ones that he can’t see and didn’t know existed.

“It was never enough for me to begin with,” Dave says back. “I just took whatever you could give me.”

And then suddenly Neal feels shitty, real shitty, and he’s crying again like a fucking girl. He turns his face away from Dave and stares at the wall, and then he says, “I didn’t mean—I didn’t know—” and he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say.

“It’s okay,” Dave says. “I know. But it will all be different now, anyways. We’ll start recording soon.”

“I don’t think,” Neal says slowly, “I don’t think I can be with you and not be _with_  you.”

“You’re not coming?” David asks, and Neal can feel him stiffen.

“I can’t be some kept woman,” Neal says. “Not even for you. I’ll pull together a new band eventually.” And then Cook’s smiling, burying his face against Cook’s cheek, and for a moment Neal feels like they’re back in the van, and this is their first real time together.

“Tiemann,” he says. “ _Neal_. I want you to be  _in_  my band. I want you to record with me and tour with me, and write with me. I just. I want you to be  _with_  me.”

Neal looks at him, looks at his face and it’s open and honest and the weight on his chest just disappears and Neal can breathe again.

“Alright,” Neal says. “Okay, yeah. Alright.” He runs a hand through his hair and says, “Well, fuck, you could have told me this earlier.”

Dave laughs lightly. “I thought you  _knew_. That’s been the plan since day one.”

Neal feels like an idiot, says, “I must have missed the memo,” and then Dave’s laughing loudly and Neal’s reaching over, punching him in the arm.

“I missed you, motherfucker,” Dave says. “It was hard to do all of that without you.”

“I’m here,” Neal says. “But I’m here now.”

 

Everyone’s packed and ready to go, and they’re all standing outside the same shitty old van that they used to tour in as the Midwest Kings. Andy and Kyle are there, and Joey, too, and Neal’s saying real loudly, “If the rock star would just hurry the fuck up…” because they’re all waiting on Dave. He’s just a couple spaces down in the parking lot talking to his brother and grabbing some last minute things from Andrew’s car.

The sun is bright and Neal’s wearing these big, white-framed sunglasses that he borrowed from someone and then just never gave back—maybe from Kira, he doesn’t remember—and he’s feeling real good.

“You know rock stars these days,” Kyle says. “He’s probably getting a farewell BJ in the backseat.”

David comes walking up from behind the car next to them. He’s carrying a container of cookies and says, “Hey, watch it! I’m spoken for, I’ll have you know.” Andy nudges Neal real obviously and waggles his eyebrows.

“Besides,” Joey points out, “that’s his brother, you sick motherfucker.”

Kyle says, “I’ll show you  _sick_ , motherfucker,” and then lunges forwards and gets Joey in a headlock. “Andy!” he yells. “Andy, get him!” and then Andy’s giving him a noogie and mayhem ensues.

“You still sure about this?” he asks Dave. He’s referring to it all—them being together, Dave asking them to be his band, everything.

“Yeah,” David says. “Yes.”

“Alright,” Neal says. “No take-backs.” He walks forward and backs Dave against the side of the van, leaning down to kiss him. His body fits perfectly against Neal’s and Neal can feel Dave’s heartbeat, strong and steady, through his chest.

Andrew honks his horn and they both jump. His car is out of its parking spot and angled towards the main road. “Hey,” he yells through the open window. “Keep it to a minimum when there’s family around. My virgin eyes, and all that.”

Andy yells back to him, “This  _is_  a minimum,” and Kyle adds, “Consider yourself lucky!”

Neal groans, “Fuck you guys,” but then Dave is tugging lightly on Neal’s hair, nodding his head towards the van and saying, “Come on, guys, let’s head out.”

Neal offers to drive the first leg of the trip to California and David tells the guys that he’ll co-pilot no problem. He talks to Neal for the rest of the ride like nothing has changed, only now they’re holding hands across the center console and sneaking glances at each other when they think the rest of the guys aren’t looking. Neal smiles at David and thinks that everything is pretty okay, pretty fucking top notch, and the road stretches on ahead of them.

 

 


End file.
